28
MACKIE
Here’sthe thing about winning a Game 7: the adrenaline doesn’t stop. It’s been four hours since the final buzzer and I’m lying in Zach’s bed and my hands are still shaking and my brain won’t shut off and I keep replaying the glove save in the third period, the one where the puck was headed for the top corner and his glove just WENT there, and if you’d told me two years ago that I’d be lying in a hockey player’s bed at 1 AM physically vibrating about a save he made, I would have believed you immediately because this is entirely on brand for me.
Zach is next to me, the light of his phone illuminating his face. His thumb swipes over the screen, refreshing a hockey forum for the third time in ten minutes.
“ESPN says you were ‘icily composed under pressure,’” I read over his shoulder. “Icily. Like you were cold. That’s a compliment, I think.”
“I was sweating so much I couldn’t see out of my mask for the last two minutes.”
“Icily sweating. Very composed.”
He puts his phone down and stares at the ceiling. His fingers drum a frantic, restless rhythm against his bare stomach, his body still playing the game.
“We should do something,” I say.
“It’s one in the morning.”
“We just won a Game 7. We should celebrate.”
“This is celebrating. We’re in bed. It’s very celebratory.”
“Zach.” I roll onto my stomach and prop myself up on my elbows. “There’s a hot tub on the roof of this building.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Mackie, it’s one in the morning and I just played sixty minutes of playoff hockey and I can barely feel my legs.”
“Which is exactly why you need a hot tub. Your muscles will thank me. I’m a wellness visionary.”
“You made me drink spinach this morning.”
“And look how that turned out! We WON. The spinach is undefeated. Now get up, we’re going to the roof.” I’m already out of bed, digging through his dresser. “Do you have swim trunks?”
“I am not?—”
“Found them.” I hold up a pair of navy swim trunks that have never been worn because Zach Almardon does not voluntarily sit in hot water on rooftops at 1 AM. “Put these on.”
“I am not putting those on.”
“Then don’t.” I pull my shirt off and grin at him. “Put nothing on. That’s also an option.”
He stares at me. I watch his brain lose the argument with his body in real time, which happens right as I toss my shirt at him. It lands on his face but he doesn’t move it.
“You’re insane,” he says through the fabric.
“And you love it. Roof. Now. Bring a towel.”
The rooftop is empty,which I knew it would be because the only people who use the hot tub are a retired couple on the eighth floor who go up at 6 PM and are in bed by 8. I know this because surveillance is a lifestyle.
The hot tub is steaming and bubbling. The whole city is spread out below us, and when I lower myself into the water, I make a sound that is frankly obscene. Zach is standing at the edge in his towel looking at me like I’ve suggested we commit a felony.
“Get in.”
“Someone could come up here.”
